


byzantine

by alcxhardy



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Filling In the Gaps, M/M, Multi, Tenderness, alternate endings, confessions? maybe??, group bath/shower but its not sexy, i cried writing it but i dont know if its sad, nobody dies during this fic but eddie is already dead in the first part, the missing parts between defeating IT and leaving Derry the next day, there are some religious metaphors because of my own history, they all share a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24857080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcxhardy/pseuds/alcxhardy
Summary: Under the bright halo of the light, they look like misplaced angels who crawled out of the earth’s core, wings ripped off and struggling to adjust to their human vessels - they are rocking in the space, shaking, swaying into each other, clawing at each others’ sleeves and bumping hips.The missing moments between the losers' final battle and leaving Derry; two alternate versions, one that follows the canon and one where Eddie lives.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16





	1. Five

**Author's Note:**

> Last semester at university I took a class called "Short Fiction." I don't write a lot of short stories and decided I would give it a go. This fic is in two alternate parts; you can read whichever part you like, but the writing is almost identical in both save for the dialogue.  
> This part follows the canon; the remaining losers are Bill, Richie, Ben, Mike + Beverly. 
> 
> I listened to only female covers of Viva La Vida (Coldplay) + The Night We Met (Lord Huron) while writing this. 
> 
> byzantine (n): intricately connected
> 
> If you want to chat, come find me on tumblr @alcxhardy 
> 
> Thank you for reading xx

The sun is shrugging off its orange coat when the losers kiss Richie in the quarry, rub his arms and slide his cracked glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, wash the blood off gently with shaking fingertips. They dunk their heads under the water, scrubbing the red stains off but not removing them; not quite. That evening, they have never been closer. They haul their water-logged bodies out of the green, walking wearily back through Derry’s illuminated streets, their limps and niggles from over-exertion on display. They say nothing, gravitating in the same space while their feet focus on the motion of moving forward.

Bill leads them to a grocery store that somehow they all remember; under the bright halo of the light, they look like misplaced angels who crawled out of the earth’s core, wings ripped off and struggling to adjust to their human vessels - they are rocking in the space, shaking, swaying into each other, clawing at each others’ sleeves and bumping hips. Richie buries his face into the crook of Bill’s neck; his hand is held by Bev; her waist is against Ben’s; and Mike has his arm around the shorter man’s shoulder. They traipse through the aisles, looking at pasta but not seeing it for its _ penne _ or its  _ tagliatelle _ , picking up packets and putting them down; as if they are glitching, rendering touch and sight for the first time in their inception. When Bill picks up spaghetti, Richie breaks down in the aisle, falling onto the linoleum on his knees and letting his wail echo throughout the store. Bev is the first to follow, pulling him against her chest and brushing his still-damp hair out of his eyes. He weeps as she holds him, snot pouring from his nose and lip trembling, saliva spilling from his mouth. 

In the next aisle, a teenager working night-shift halts her mopping and comes over to offer assistance, but is puzzled to find a grown man crying on his knees despite being surrounded by a group of friends; somehow they are all damp, and there are red stains on their clothing - perhaps they are painters. She leaves them alone in the aisle, holding each other, and after they’ve left she mops up the slick of water they leave behind, not wanting to think about the fact that the red tinge in the droplets looks like blood and she’s not sure whose it is. 

The old hotel stairs creak as they walk up them, their grip on each other still firm; it is a chilly night, and their throats are aching from inhaling in the crisp air in between leaving the shops and walking back to the residence; they diverge to each dorm, haul their luggage into Mike’s room; his is the biggest, with enough space for all of their bags to litter the living room. 

The bathroom floor becomes a laundry room - they fill up the bath, turn the shower on, help each other remove their clothes when their hands fail; too shaky for buttons or zippers. In any other situation, they know that it would be uncomfortable, that Ben would blush and Richie would make lewd jokes, but this time, it doesn’t matter. After today’s events, nothing is uncomfortable except parting from each other. They offer for Bev to go in first but she shakes her head, clinging to Ben, her face painted in such a way that they know she trusts them in a way that’s not extended to anyone else, not even her husband. They peel their shirts and pants off, guide Richie under the water of the shower so he can wash away Eddie’s blood from his hands and chest, and when he stands there absently with his face pressed against the tiles, Bill is beside him, rubbing hotel shampoo through the hair around his temples, scrubbing off the cakes of dirt and blood on his neck, guiding the bar of soap into his limp hand so he can wash between his legs and in between his toes.

The rest of them sit on the side of the bath, dipping their feet in the hot water which is slowly staining red, cleaning the soles of their feet, scrubbing their backs and faces and removing the grime from underneath their fingernails. The brown ring of dirt and blood around the rim of the bath lingers even after they refill it numerous times, and eventually they give up trying to scrub it. The floor is soaked as they all clamber out, dry wearily; Mike has raided their bags for clothes but they end up putting on each other’s t-shirts and pyjama bottoms, pulling bed socks up over the elastic of their pants, snuggling into too-large jumpers and hoodies that smell like each other. 

Bev ends up in a shirt of Richie’s that pools loose around her stomach. She jokes gently that he’s getting fat and he hugs her tight against his chest so she can’t wiggle out of his grip until he kisses her on the top of her head. They throw the dirty towels into the bathtub and settle in Mike’s room.

Ben flicks the old heater on and as it grumbles alive, Mike cooks the pasta on the small stove in the kitchenette. The others are surprised, but he insists he paid extra for a fully functioning hotel room as the water boils and he stirs. They eat it al-dente, unsauced, unspiced, just the heat of it rolling through them, warming them up from the inside out. They sit knee-to-knee on the floor, shovelling the pasta into their mouths, burping freely, the clink of fork-to-bowl the only sound of comfort as they shift closer and closer to the heater. 

Bev falls asleep on the couch, her limbs sprawled out over Ben’s lap, feet overhanging the arm-rest. Bill retreats to his room with soft feet, then Mike follows suit, leaving Richie perched alone on the floor as the weariness hits him. He trudges to Bill’s room, knocks gently, and is met by a pair of bleary-eyes.  _ You ok?  _ Bill asks and the response is  _ I don’t want to be alone.  _ And Bill opens the door wider to let his best friend through. Richie slides under the covers with him and Bill relaxes as they fit together, the taller man snuggled into his shoulder and his arm around his waist. In the dark, their breathing settles and their chests rise and fall in rhythm as sleep comes easily. It isn’t long before Mike’s knocking too, and then Bev and Ben are falling into the bed with them, squishing in so that Bill is stuck in between his best friends with barely any wriggle-room.  _ It’s lucky this b-bed is a king,  _ Bill jokes, and they all hum and sigh as they tangle together, an ecosystem of too-long legs and disjointed hands and hips. The duvet gets tugged from side to side throughout the night but they’re all kept warm from the proximity to each others’ bodies. Their hearts thump in rhythm, soft and steady like the familiar drumbeat of a song they once all danced to when they had their innocence. 

*

The losers wake up late. The sun is already hanging proudly in the middle of the sky, warming their feet through the rays bleeding in through the window. Their faces are sore and dented from being pressed against the pillows and the curves of each others’ bodies in uninterrupted deep sleep. Bill takes their order for eggs, and he and Mike trudge to the kitchenette to cook breakfast as the others slowly crawl out of bed and meander to the living room. Scrambled eggs for Bev, Bill and Ben, Richie gets a boiled one, poached for Mike. Bill hands them plates, the varying blend of white and yellow sprawled out on the ceramic. 

_ What the hell is this?  _ Richie jokes as he finds the yolk of his egg still runny,  _ I asked for an egg, not an embryo. _

_ G-good to hah-ve you back,  _ Bill smiles, and Richie eats the egg anyway as a grin spreads across his face. Mike shovels pancakes onto their plates and they share syrup and sugar and store-bought strawberries, forgetting to rinse the punnet under the creaky tap but biting into the flesh of the fruit without hesitation. For a moment they are transported back to their teens, 13 and clumsy, covered in pimples and eating each others’ packed lunches in the barrens with the summer sun blazing above and their knees scraped bloody from too much adventure. 

They help each other pack, taking off the items of clothing that do not belong to them and folding them neatly so they’ll fit in the luggage bags.  _ Keep it,  _ Richie tells Bev as she goes to remove his shirt,  _ it suits you.  _ Mike refuses to take off Bill’s socks and the two share a tender grin in acknowledgement. When it is done, they once again sit in the living-room, expressions sombre, their eyes darting around to meet each other’s faces. 

_ What now?  _ Bev asks, her lip quivering, and the rest of them blink.  _ We just… leave? _

_ It’s over,  _ Mike says it easily, and there is a collective exhale, like they’ve been clinging onto the possibility that It could be back to haunt them again.  _ We can go home. _

_ I don’t even know where home is,  _ Richie purrs, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.  _ What do I have left to go back to? _

Before anyone can answer, Bill is pulling out his phone, creating a new contact and passing the device around, shoving it in the hands of Mike and waving for him to pass it along to Richie when he’s done, then to Bev and Ben. There is a silence as they listen to the keyboard clicks, an alternate rhythm of sounds individual in the way they type. When it is done, they pass the phone back to Bill, and then he bites his lip.  _ W-Well, it’s done, th-then. Let’s n-not wait another 27 years to hang out. _

_ Maybe we could do something normal next time;  _ it is Richie speaking.  _ Like going to a movie. Nothing that involves almost dying, or actu… _

_ How about we see each other next week?  _ Bev asks, changing the subject so Richie doesn’t have time to finish his sentence, and Ben takes her hand and holds it.  _ I know we need some time to re-settle at home but… we… we’re all we have. _

_ Let’s go home,  _ Ben nods.  _ Settle. Then we’ll call.  _

*

The losers pack their suitcases into their cars, help each other carry their bags down the stairs and shove them in the boots and backseats, and hug each other tightly as they begin to leave; Mike waves them off as Bev piles into Ben’s car, and Bill kisses Richie on the cheek as he says farewell. 

_ Call m-me if you nee-need anything, anything at all,  _ he murmurs, and Richie nods. He pulls Bill into a tight hug - the force between them almost knocks Bill off his feet, but Richie’s arms are strong, and they are steadied by his careful grip. To anyone walking by who was oblivious to the ordeal the losers had been through, it would have appeared that two men who were desperately in love with each other were saying their final goodbyes, but to Richie and Bill, it is a hug that makes up for not hugging each other in nearly thirty years. It is the embrace of two men who are making up for the lost friendship they never intended to forget, and when they part, neither of them are surprised that the other is crying. 


	2. E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last semester at university I took a class called "Short Fiction." I don't write a lot of short stories and decided I would give it a go. This fic is in two alternate parts; you can read whichever part you like, but the writing is almost identical in both save for the dialogue.  
> This part alternates from the canon; the remaining losers are Bill, Richie, Ben, Mike, Eddie + Beverly. 
> 
> For the sake of me not having to send the losers to hospital, Eddie is not detrimentally injured in this chapter. He does not die either. Worry not!
> 
> I listened to only female covers of Viva La Vida (Coldplay) + The Night We Met (Lord Huron) while writing this. 
> 
> byzantine (n): intricately connected
> 
> If you want to chat, come find me on tumblr @alcxhardy 
> 
> Thank you for reading xx
> 
> __________
> 
> Emetophobia content warning for this chapter x

The sun is shrugging off its orange coat when the losers kiss Richie in the quarry, rub his arms and slide his cracked glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, wash the blood off gently with shaking fingertips. They dunk their heads under the water, scrubbing the red stains off but not removing them; not quite. That evening, they have never been closer. They haul their water-logged bodies out of the green, walking wearily back through Derry’s illuminated streets, their limps and niggles from over-exertion on display. They say nothing, gravitating in the same space while their feet focus on the motion of stepping forward.

Bill leads them to a grocery store that somehow they all remember; under the bright halo of the light, they look like misplaced angels who crawled out of the earth’s core, wings ripped off and struggling to adjust to their human vessels - they are rocking in the space, shaking, swaying into each other, clawing at each others’ sleeves and bumping hips. Richie buries his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck; his hand is held by Bev; her waist is against Ben’s; and Mike has his arm around Bill’s shoulder, his grip tight as if he may lose him if they are parted. They traipse through the aisles, looking at pasta but not seeing it for its _penne_ or its _tagliatelle_ , picking up packets and putting them down; as if they are glitching, rendering touch and sight for the first time in their inception. When Bill picks up spaghetti, Richie breaks down in the aisle, pulling Eddie closer and holding him tightly as he weeps, muttering fractured sentences about how they almost lost him today and how he couldn’t stand it if they had’ve. Bev hugs him from behind, burying her face between his shoulder blades and brushing his still-damp hair out of his eyes. He cries effortlessly, his hands clutching at Eddie and Bev, and the rest of the losers blockade themselves into the hug, a mess of limbs all reaching for each other as they process the weight of what has happened to them. 

In the next aisle, a teenager working night-shift halts her mopping and comes over to offer assistance, but is puzzled to find a group of friends just embracing as one of them cries: somehow they are all damp, and there are red stains on their clothing - perhaps they are painters. She leaves them alone in the aisle, holding each other, and after they’ve left she mops up the slick of water they leave behind not wanting to think about the fact that the red tinge in the droplets looks like blood and she’s not sure whose it is. 

The old hotel stairs creak as they walk up them, their grip on each other still firm; it is a chilly night, and their throats are aching from inhaling in the crisp air in between leaving the shops and walking back to the residence; they diverge to each dorm, haul their luggage into Mike’s room; his is the biggest, with enough space for all of their bags to litter the living room. 

The bathroom floor becomes a laundry room - they fill up the bath, turn the shower on, help each other remove their clothes when their hands fail; too shaky for buttons or zippers. In any other situation, they know that it would be uncomfortable, that Ben would blush and Richie would make lewd jokes, but this time, it doesn’t matter; nothing can separate them. Nothing again will be awkward between the six friends who have cheated death twice over and come out the other side stronger together. They offer for Bev to go in first but she shakes her head, clinging to Ben, her face painted in such a way that they know she trusts them in a way that’s not extended to anyone else, not even her husband. They peel their shirts and pants off and Richie settles under the water of the shower; Eddie follows him in, and although there is a hint of tender embarrassment dwelling between them, they face opposite directions out of courtesy, passing the soap to each other so they can scrub the grime off their bodies. 

“God, you’re so fucking hairy now,” Eddie jokes as he turns around to rinse his hair under the shower’s stream.

“You still look like you did when you were 13,” Richie replies. “So at least I actually _look like_ a man. Anyway, your mom loves a hairy chest.”

There is barely any inflection in their voices, too strained from the day they’ve endured, but they grin and sigh with recognition for each other; through it all, they have changed, grown into the skin of adulthood. Every stretch mark and scar and hair is new to the other, but not at all unwelcome. Seeing the changed body of one of your oldest friends, thinks Richie, is like planting a tree in your youth and returning to the same spot as an adult to see its new bark and canopy. It is no less magnificent than the very act of creation. 

The rest of the losers sit on the side of the bath, dipping their feet in the water which is slowly staining orange, cleaning the soles of their feet, scrubbing their backs and faces and removing the gunk from underneath their nails. The brown ring of dirt and blood around the rim of the bath lingers even after they refill it numerous times. The floor is soaked as they clamber out, dry wearily; Mike has raided their bags but they end up putting on each other’s t-shirts and pyjama bottoms, pulling bed socks up over the elastic of their pants, snuggling into too-large jumpers and hoodies that smell like each other. 

Bev ends up in a shirt of Richie’s that pools loose around her stomach. She jokes gently that he’s getting fat and he hugs her tight against his chest so she can’t wiggle out of his grip until he kisses her on the top of her head. They throw the dirty towels into the bathtub and settle in Mike’s room. Ben flicks the old heater on and as it grumbles alive, Mike cooks the pasta on the small stove in the kitchenette. The others are surprised, but he insists he paid extra for a fully functioning hotel room as the water boils and he stirs. They eat it al-dente, unsauced, unspiced, just the heat of it rolling through them, warming them up from the inside out. They sit knee-to-knee on the floor, shovelling the pasta into their mouths, burping freely, the clink of fork-to-bowl the only sound of comfort as they shift closer and closer to the heater. 

Bev falls asleep on the couch, her limbs sprawled out over Ben’s lap, feet overhanging the arm-rest. Bill retreats to his room, his footsteps soft, then Mike follows suit, leaving Richie perched on the floor beside Eddie as the weariness washes over them. They say nothing, only sit comfortably in the silence together, noting the ways that their bodies fill the space with ease. Eddie eventually lays down, stretches out on the carpet. 

“I’ll go,” Richie murmurs, but Eddie takes his arm and holds him. _Stay._

The two lay beside each other, their bodies almost too close for comfort, but it is cold and they are shivering. After a few moments, when Eddie can feel sleep tugging on his lids, there is a familiar voice that calls to them: it is Bill, standing at the doorway, with bleary eyes. 

“N-no use lying on th-the f-floor, I have a king,” he licks his lips. “Come on, if you want.”

The two walk sheepishly in rhythm, following each other into Bill’s room. 

“You ok?” Richie asks, and Bill nods. 

“It’s a s-strange thing, t-to sleep alone, after a-all th-this.” 

Richie slides under the covers with him and Bill relaxes as they fit together, the taller man snuggled into his shoulder and his arm around his waist. Eddie is careful as he slips in next to Richie, resting his chin in the groove between Richie’s neck and shoulder. For a moment, he thinks he can hear Richie exhale, but in the dark, he can’t make out the clarity of the sound. It isn’t long before Mike’s knocking too, and then Bev and Ben are falling into the bed with them, squishing in so that Bill is stuck in between his best friends with barely any wriggle-room. He jokes about the size of the bed and the six pairs of sweaty feet and they all hum and sigh as they tangle together, an ecosystem of too-long legs and hands and hips. The duvet gets tugged from side to side throughout the night but they’re all kept warm from the proximity to each others’ bodies. Their hearts thump in rhythm, soft and steady like the familiar drumbeat of a song they once all danced to when they had their innocence. 

The losers wake up late. The sun is already hanging proudly in the middle of the sky, warming their feet through the rays bleeding in through the window. Their faces are sore and dented from being pressed against the pillows and the curves of each others’ bodies in uninterrupted deep sleep. Bill takes their order for eggs, and he and Mike trudge to the kitchen to cook breakfast as the others slowly crawl out of bed and meander to the living room. Scrambled eggs for Bev, Bill and Ben; Richie gets a boiled one; poached eggs for Mike, and a fried egg for Eddie, cooked all the way through so the yolk is hard. Bill hands them plates, the varying blend of white and yellow sprawled out on the ceramic. Mike shovels pancakes onto their plates and they share syrup and sugar and store-bought strawberries, forgetting to rinse the punnet under the creaky tap but biting into the flesh of the fruit without hesitation. For a moment they are transported back to their teens, 13 and clumsy, covered in pimples and eating each others’ packed lunches in the barrens with the summer sun blazing above and their knees scraped bloody from too much adventure. 

They help each other pack, taking off the items of clothing that do not belong to them and folding them neatly so they’ll fit in the luggage bags. 

“Keep it,” Richie tells Bev as she goes to remove his shirt, “it suits you.”

Mike refuses to take off Bill’s socks and the two share a tender grin in acknowledgement. When everything is done, they once again sit in the living-room, expressions sombre, their eyes darting around to meet each other’s faces. 

“What now?” Bev asks, her lip quivering, and the rest of them blink. “We just… leave?”

“It’s over,” Mike says it easily, and there is a collective exhale, like they’ve been clinging onto the possibility that It could be back to haunt them again. “We can go home.”

“I don’t even know where home is,” Richie purrs, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses.

Bill pulls out his phone, creating a new contact and passing the device around, shoving it in the hands of Mike and waving for him to pass it along to Richie when he’s done, then to Eddie, then Bev and Ben. There is a silence as they listen to the keyboard clicks, an alternate rhythm of sounds individual in the way they type. When it is done, they pass the phone back to Bill, and then he bites his lip. 

“W-Well, it’s done, th-then. Let’s n-not wait another 27 years to hang out.”

“Maybe we could do something normal next time,” it is Richie speaking. “Like going to a movie. Something low-risk, low-effort.”

“How about we see each other next week?” Bev asks, and Ben takes her hand and holds it, running his fingers over her own in tender strokes. “Dinner. I know we need some time to re-settle at home but… we… we’re all we have.”

“Let’s go home,” Ben nods. “Settle. Then we’ll call.”

Richie chews his lip, notices the way Eddie is smiling, but when they meet each other’s eyes, he promptly looks away.

*

The losers pack their suitcases into their cars, help each other carry their bags down the stairs and shove them in the boots and backseats, and hug each other tightly as they begin to leave; Mike waves them off as Bev piles into Ben’s car, and Bill kisses Richie on the cheek as he says farewell.

Richie is packing the final few mismatched socks into his suitcase in the hotel-room when he is seized by a cloud of panic; his breath labours and he clutches the side of the bed to asway his dizziness. It has been the most ragged forty hours of his adult life - and his memories from childhood are bubbling up in his throat. He thinks of seeing Bev again, missing her despite not recalling the familiarity of her flame hair, the way that he used to lean on Bill as a teenager, and then he thinks of Eddie and the way he felt the ache in his chest from the moment he saw him at the Chinese restaurant; how even though he wanted to say _I’ve missed you_ he made fun instead, stomached the _fuck you_ ’s, and how in the dark of IT’s lair, he knew nothing so well as the words that he’s been unable to say honestly to anyone in almost thirty years. And then there is Eddie’s face, changed, weathered, but still the same eyes as he remembers from his boyhood. And Eddie had noticed his body because he had commented on it, Richie realises, and Eddie’s hand had brushed against his waist last night as they slept with their feet entwined, and _Eddie. Eddie. Little Eddie Kaspbrak, now grown._

And Richie is running to the bathroom as his stomach stirs and his throat tenses, falling onto his knees against the tiles of the toilet-room, sweat rolling down his forehead as he vomits up the egg he’s only recently digested. He groans, tries to collect his breathing until the second wave rolls through him and he chokes up acid.

“Are you… are you sick?” 

Richie jerks upwards; it is Eddie, standing behind him, his weight shifting on the balls of his feet, like he is deciding whether to come closer or bolt away. Richie frowns, and Eddie blinks.

“The door was open,” he explains quickly. “I came to say goodbye.”

“I’m fine…” Richie breathes. “I just… this last forty hours has been rough, you know.”

Eddie nods, but he is backing away. _Fuck._ Richie sighs, resting his head on the rim of the toilet-bowl. But Eddie has not left; he comes closer, bringing Richie a tissue and a glass of water. Eddie lingers in the doorway as Richie gulps down the water, wipes his lips, rummages in his suitcase for his toothpaste and slides a glob of it into his mouth, swishing it and spitting into the toilet before flushing and washing his hands.

“You okay?” Eddie’s question is softer this time.

Richie nods, a small smile tugging his lips. Eddie came back to say goodbye to him, and his presence soothes his nerves. Having him in the same room is like coming home and finding someone has left the light on for you, he decides. 

“I just… Apart from Mike, I’m the only person who has nobody and nothing to go back to,” Richie is quiet.

“Aren’t you missing a _masturbator’s anonymous_ meeting?” Eddie winks, checking his watch. “Y’know, since your girlfriend-” 

“-I don’t actually have a girlfriend,” Richie huffs playfully. “And uh… you… you watch my comedy?”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs. “I always have. Your voice was calming, like I’d known it in a different life. You felt like a friend, even when I couldn’t remember you used to be one.”

“Still am, though, right?” Richie’s heart thumps against his ribcage and soars as Eddie nods.

“Twenty seven years… Everybody I’ve ever truly cared about has been you guys,” Richie continues, “and you’re all leaving again.” _Leaving me._ He bites his lip as Eddie’s eyes search his face; and he is scared that Eddie will peel back his flesh and realise that above all things he’s _lonely._

“We’re not leaving you, Rich, we’re just…” Eddie trails off, blinking as his jaw tightens. 

“Are you going home?” Richie purrs, his voice quiet.

“I have to. My wife has no idea where I am. I kinda just took off without being specific.”

“You don’t have to go back to her,” Richie is almost whispering now. “If you don’t love her. Do you love her, Eddie, do you truly _love_ her?” Surprisingly, Eddie muses, he makes no jokes. 

“As much as I know how to love a woman like her, I suppose I do.” Eddie’s eyes are trained on the ground, and he is speaking slowly as if he is choosing his words with the utmost caution.

“But do you feel passion for her… like… like she’s…”

“What do you want from me?” Eddie chokes. “Why are you asking me all these questions? What’s it matter to you?”

Richie steps forward, his eyes on Eddie’s neck. “Don’t make me say it,” he whispers. “Please, God, Eds, don’t ask me to say it. Don’t you know? Don’t you-”

Eddie rests his hands on Richie’s shoulders, his grip both pushing him away and pulling him closer. The touch makes Richie light up; he wants to bridge the gap between them, but something keeps him fixed where he stands. 

“I made a commitment, Rich. I’m a man of my word. Do you think of me fondly enough to know that I keep my word?”

“Of course,” Richie bites his lip, sucks it into his mouth. His eyes are welling with tears and his throat is beginning to ache. “Come with me,” he says instead.

Eddie asks repeatedly where they are going as Richie drags them down the stairs, out of the hotel, and through Derry’s streets, his pace quickening, until they reach the bridge where people have knifed initials into its frame. It is a shabby thing, the wood too rough and the red archway overshadowing it. Richie stands there, points at the carving. 

“What am I looking at?” Eddie shakes his head.

“God, Eddie, fuck you,” Richie chokes out, but his tone is not aggressive or cruel. He points towards the top, and as Eddie moves closer, he spots what he’s looking for, traces the carving with his eyes, runs his digits over the R + E. Static begins to thrum behind his eyes; nothing registers except the thump of his heart in his throat and the wave of _oh_ that sweeps through his body. The realisation settles in his stomach and he stays crouched, lingering in the space between acknowledging the truth or turning to face its embodiment. He chooses the latter, and when he looks upwards, Richie’s cheeks are tear-stained and his eyes are dark.

“How old is this?” Eddie chokes out.

“It doesn’t matter,” Richie sniffs. “It’s been there almost my whole life.”

“Is this why you’re asking me not to go back to Myra, Rich? Because thirty years ago you carved our initials into a bridge on a whim and somehow it still holds weight for you?”

“It _does_ hold weight,” Richie snarls, stepping forwards. He grasps Eddie by the face, keeps his hands tight. “This _is_ why I’m asking you. Because thirty odd years ago I carved your initial next to mine and after all this time it’s still there, and we’re here and… and we...” he is poking Eddie in the chest and repeating the action on himself, as if he can prod at both of their hearts to check that they’re beating in time. 

“You can’t even say it, Rich.”

“Neither can you. You’re afraid. What are you afraid of, Eds?”

“Everything,” his voice is a whisper, and Richie pulls him closer and holds him against his chest, rests his head on top of Eddie’s. Eddie notes the strong arms, the warm chest, the way that Richie’s holding him so tightly he thinks he might pop his vertebrae, but at the same time, the embrace is nothing but tender, hallowed like it is the last time they will ever touch. 

“Does it matter?” Eddie chokes out. “Does it still matter to you, Richie, after all this time?”

“It’s the only thing that matters,” Richie’s lip is quivering, his eyes wet from crying. “It’s all that matters… you... you’re all” - 

“Don’t do that,” Eddie lets the tears come. “Please, don’t make me break my promise, don’t make me into a dishonest man. I made a commitment.”

“Fuck,” Richie pushes Eddie away, shoves his hands over his face. “Don’t you care for me, don’t you feel anything? Didn’t seeing me again make you…”

Eddie reaches forwards and takes Richie’s face in his hands. The taller man leans into his touch, opening his eyes so that they can gaze at each other. “It’s not about you, Richie. It’s about me, and… I’m good, I have to be good, I’m a good person.”

“You can be a good person who made a mistake,” Richie growls, “You can be a good person even when you hurt someone.” He pauses, then continues: “Eddie, you could never be anything _but_ good.”

“Even when it hurts,” Eddie rolls the words around in his mouth, his brow knitting into a frown, brown eyes squinting as he tries to make sense of Richie’s meaning. His fingers rub over his friend’s cheeks, slowly circling the soft skin flecked by stubble, the distinct jaw. For a moment, Richie leans closer, and Eddie allows his forehead to rest on his own. They stay connected, Eddie’s hands cradling Richie’s face, Richie’s arms wrapped around Eddie’s neck and waist, their breathing in time, albeit shaky. They don’t part when Richie starts crying again, his back shaking. 

“I’m a fucking coward,” he whispers, “I wish I hadn’t kept it a secret… you never knew… you really never knew?”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Eddie’s throat is burning, “I know now. I know now…” _I’ve always known_ forms on his tongue, but he cannot speak the words.

“But it’s _too late_ now,” Richie’s hands are grappling for his shirt, holding him by the sleeves and the collar, “it’s too late and you’re going to go back to her and I’m going to be all alone again… just like always, just like the last twenty seven years of my life… without y-without _you_. And you’re being dishonest, too, by the way,” his last line is quiet, but full of venom.

“That’s not fair,” Eddie chokes. “That’s not fair, Richie.”

“Isn’t it?” Richie huffs. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Eddie turns away. “You already know it.”

“So stop lying,” Richie pulls him closer. “Stop lying and I’ll stop hiding and we can figure it out together… we can fix it, please Eds, please, we can fix it, together, can’t we?”

Eddie struggles against his grip, won’t meet his eyes; he’s already desperate to reach into his pocket and pull out a tissue before snot starts to run from his nose, but Richie’s restraining him with a hard grip as if to force him to listen, to linger in the space that arcs between their bodies. 

“You can’t fix everything, Richie,” it is a plea. “You can’t fix something that’s not broken.”

“Not broken, but _rotten_ ,” Richie weeps. “You’re lying to yourself and you’re lying to me, but I can see through you Eddie Kaspbrak, because I _know_ you, always have, and even if I’m a coward and you’re one too, I know what you believe deep down, and I know it’s the same as what I’ve held onto for all these years.”

Eddie’s grip tightens at this, and he buries his fingers in the hair at the back of Richie’s neck. Richie is the apple, he thinks; he is the very core of what Eddie knows is ripe and right and he wants to sink his teeth in, take the first bite like Eve, even if it means that he’ll ruin everything. They are closer than they’ve been before; Eddie can smell Richie’s cologne, Richie can see the pink staining Eddie’s cheeks, the way his brow is knitting and the tiny quiver of his lip. Richie’s eyes are red from the tears, and although he wants to pull away, he stays in the space of discomfort, letting their bodies sway closer to each other as they memorise each others’ faces. _God forbid it be another thirty years,_ Richie thinks, but truly, as Eddie’s fingers move slowly against him, he’s not sure whether they’ll reconnect next week or when there’s grey staining their scalps. _Even worse…_ For a fleeting moment, he thinks of a rocking chair on a porch and the sunset and the fireplace crackling alongside a record they both know, but he shoves the fantasy back down before it can tear up his throat and he has to choke up the blood. It is too sweet, too sickly, and he can already feel his teeth chattering from the terror inside him that this might be their last moment together. 

“Take this,” Richie pulls a marker out of his jacket pocket, takes Eddie’s hand in his palm. Their hands are almost the same size, he notices. Eddie’s knuckles are wounded and raw; soon, scabs will start forming and he will bandage them immediately to prevent infection. His nails are impeccably clean, and Richie smiles, fighting the way his lips pull into an automatic scowl; his own are caked with dirt and grime. They are chalk and cheese, always have been, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Eddie looks up as Richie pulls the cap of the marker off with his teeth, holds it in his parted mouth, his tongue pink and soft on display poking out to rest on his bottom lip. He writes his number on the dorsum of Eddie’s hand, taking his time to master every curve and line. _He’ll warn me of ink poisoning,_ Richie hums silently to himself, _even though it doesn’t work like that,_ but the retort does not come. Instead, Eddie flexes his hand and Richie, after tucking the marker back into his pocket, brings Eddie’s hand up to his lips to blow softly on the ink. Eddie’s eyes remain locked on his mouth, the gentle O shape of his lips, the way his breath is steady and cool. 

“When you get home,” Richie’s grip on Eddie’s wrist stays, “you call me. Do you understand?”

Eddie nods.

“Do you promise?”

They stay still, blinking, Eddie nodding. “I promise.”

Richie tightens his grip on the other man’s wrist, pulls him closer, cups his cheek and leans in. “I promise, too,” he whispers against his neck, letting his lips graze the tanned skin. It is almost a chaste kiss, only not quite, because despite Richie’s lingering, he cannot bear to stay too close for any longer. “I promise, Eddie.”

Then Richie pulls away and steps backwards, his feet scuffing on the ground. “I still have to pack a few final things,” he murmurs, but he makes no motion in the direction back towards the hotel, seemingly waiting for Eddie to leave him there. Eddie leans forward in a burst of impulsiveness, kisses Richie on the cheek, leaves his lips there for too long, and then follows the old road back to Derry, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure Richie isn’t too far behind him.

*

Eddie takes his hand and his throat and his stomach and sits in his car in the hotel car park, exhales softly. His eyes are puffy and he cannot bear to look at himself in the rear-view-mirror. He turns his keys in the ignition and then turns the car off again. His hand is still tingling, and he holds it up to his face and traces the numbers with his eyes. _Richie,_ he thinks. Richie’s hand that held his in place, Richie’s number sinking into his skin. _Ink poisoning_ crosses his mind, but he cannot seem to find anything ugly in knowing that the mark of a man he’s revered for most of his life is seeping into his flesh, staining his skin so that he will have to scrub it with intention to remove it, un-brand himself. Richie isn’t the apple, he decides. Richie is the worm burying himself inside Eddie’s core, eating away slowly, until for better or worse he will consume him whole. For all his friend’s talk of rotten things, he knows that there is only one thing that’s decaying inside him; the seed of doubt and fear, and he is paralysed by it. 

Still, he sighs, rubs his eyes, and turns the key again. His engine hums to life with a whine, and as Eddie flicks his indicator on, he finds it in himself to look in the rear-vision mirror. Richie is reflected in it, standing behind his car in the middle of the road. He is packed and ready to go, but he remains lingering. His arms hang loose at his sides, his glasses hiding the tender expression on his face. _Stay,_ it says. Eddie’s foot remains on the brakes, waiting for Richie to wave or nod or leave him to go, but he does nothing, stays fixed on the road, waiting. _Waiting for me,_ Eddie knows, watching to see whether he’ll stay or go. He gazes again at the black bleed on his hand, chokes down the lump in his throat, and flicks the ignition off again. Richie is unmoving in the rear view mirror, and Eddie sighs. It is a moment of clarity; he is inside his car, safe, untouchable, and the man he knows intimately is merely a reflection behind him. To go to him, Eddie has to leave his bubble, surrender his comfort zone, and confront his past. 

Eddie dry-heaves as he thinks about driving away from Richie, leaving him behind, a still in the mirror, a reminder of what he could risk if he wasn’t so scared. As the rain starts to fall, gently tapping on the windscreen, Eddie thinks about driving back to his wife, then sees Richie turn away from him. He knows from now on he can never return _home,_ not truly, not with the same confidence of knowing where he’s meant to belong. His opportunity to make up his mind is slipping out of his grasp as quickly as Richie disappears from the view of his mirror, and in the silence, Eddie begins to cry. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if you're in pain now: take [ this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kG349PSYlF8&t=24s) or come chat with me [here](https://alcxhardy.tumblr.com/) & as always, thank you for reading xx


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